Page 103 of Dirty Mechanic
“I could dismantle it with more time. More light. A wedge maybe…”
She places a hand on my arm. “You tried. But we’re not fugitives. Come back to me.”
I do.
She burrows into my side like I’m the only warm thing in the world, and maybe I am right now.
We settle onto the cot, her thigh draped over mine, blanket pooled around our legs, and for a second, I almost believe we’re safe.
But I know better.
If the court tosses our marriage, I lose everything. The trust. The land. Sarah’s legacy.
But right now, all I care about is the woman curled beside me, body tight with silent tremors beneath a scratchy county-issued blanket.
Rain drums a war rhythm above us.
“You sure this isn’t our honeymoon suite?” I murmur. “Open concept, privacy, tons of natural ambiance…”
“Five-star jail chic,” she whispers. “If we ask nicely, maybe they’ll throw in a mint.”
“I’ve got mints in my jacket,” I say, nuzzling her hair.
She laughs. It’s real. Brief. But the sound is enough to knock something loose in my chest.
Then her smile fades. Her gaze lowers. “I wish I’d handled things differently with Mike. With the divorce.”
I tuck a lock of damp hair behind her ear. “You told me. You survived. That’s what matters.”
She exhales slowly. “And now, we deal with the fallout.”
“We will,” I say. “Together.”
She shifts to her side, her leg sliding over mine. Bare skin. Warm breath. A brush of lips. And yeah—despite everything, I’m still half-hard.
Because, of course, I am.
My wife is curled against me in a locked cell, and I’m a man with a perfectly functional sex drive and historically poor timing.
She arches a brow. “Seriously?”
“What? I’m a man with a working circulatory system. And thunder’s kind of my kink.”
She snorts. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet here you are, all warm limbs and questionable judgment.”
“If this ends in more handcuffs, I swear to God…”
I kiss her before she can finish.
It’s slow at first. Soft. A grounding kiss in a storm we didn’t ask for. But when her fingers trail over my thigh, I deepen it. Her breath catches. Her lips part. I pull her onto my lap beneath the thin blanket and slide my hand between her thighs.
Thank God for dresses.
My fingers trace over her panties.
“You’re soaked,” I murmur against her mouth.
